Voices

The restless sea is calling, and I would be away
To where the surf pounds up the beach to thunder in my ears,
To where the salt wind tastes like wine and sailing vessels gay
Go out to strange sea-guarded ports and drift home gray with years.
From books and shells and scraps of tales these thoughts have come to me,
For I was born far inland, who long to go to sea.

The midland has its voices, but they call to me in vain.
I care not for the whispering road nor drumming city street.
My heartbeats do not quicken to the thrush’s joyous strain,
Nor to the sighing music of the wind upon the wheat.
The bees drone their contented song—but what is this to me?
For I was born far inland and long to hear the sea.

The sky is like the sea today and clouds like galleons ride—
I found a tiny river just beginning near the spring,
That called for me to follow and it would be my guide;
A boisterous echo in its tone, that yet was whispering,
Gave me hint of ocean surge, and soon I know that we
Shall leave this inland country and make our way to sea.